If I promised to
meet you next week you would keep on hoping. Do plunge right in now
instead of shivering on the bank."
"Don't trouble about any more metaphors," I told her. "You promise to go
home within a year?"
"I firmly intend to," she replied, "but you can't always depend on a
woman's plans."
"If I can't depend on you I have very little left to believe in," I
declared.
"I'm pretty sure I'll come," she said, "and--and God bless you, John!"
So we separated there, in the silent street, before the nurses' home
where she had taken a room a few days after her graduation. I couldn't
trust myself to say anything more.
The door closed upon her and I slowly walked back to my quarters, with a
head full of dreary thoughts, and several times narrowly escaped speeding
taxis and brought down upon myself some picturesque language.
I fear that I was hardly in a mood to appreciate its beauty.
CHAPTER II
_From John Grant's Diary_
Four weeks ago, this evening, I sat with Dora in that bright dining room
at the Rochambeau. My description of that last meeting of ours is a
rather flippant one, I fancy, but some feminine faces are improved by
powder, and some men's sentiments by a veneer of assumed cheerfulness.
That cut of mine has not the slightest intention of healing by first
intention; it is gaping as widely as ever, as far as I can judge. Yet I
am glad I made no further effort.
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